


carry the ghost

by ghostmachine



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fluff, Singer/Songwriter AU, angsty fluff, cigarettes au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-11-15
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:05:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5027761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostmachine/pseuds/ghostmachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carmilla is an undiscovered singer/songwriter with a lot of baggage. Laura is a university student with the world at her feet. Brought together by circumstance, they find that while writing love songs is easy, living them is a lot harder. </p>
<p>also known as: hollstein cigarettes au</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an image I had of Carmilla playing an acoustic guitar on a smoky bar stage and inspired by Noah Gundersen's music. Title taken from his latest LP release. 
> 
> All lyrics are represented in italics, and all songs featured are real songs. They can be found on the Cigarettes AU playlist here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLvdj6L_EztKwAcDs2cG3EsTSfkC1z4M07
> 
> Cigarettes AU is dedicated entirely to my friend, Kristianne; without her excitement and endless headcanons for this fic, it would not exist.
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: hellohurricane
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: Carmilla and all its characters belong to Smokebomb, Shift2, and U By Kotex. All song lyrics are represented in italics and belong entirely to their respective artists. I didn't write them (and neither did Carmilla).

You hate neon lights.

And beer. You hate the smell, the way it clings to the wood on the walls, the way it settles in your chest. Most of all, you hate the people in this shitty bar, the ones who groan and throw back another drink when the owner announces the start of open mic night, because _shit_ , they forgot, and who wants to listen to that crap?

You can’t say what brought you here, other than the flyer posted on the bulletin board at work. You’re just like everyone else, really—you hope that waitressing will be a short-term thing, hope you’re onto bigger and better things. But it’s been a year since you quit one minimum wage job for another. A year and…72 days. Not that you’re counting. Not that you’ve scratched tick marks into the back of one of the diner booths every day because you’re bored and you’re masochistic and you’re too sentimental for your own good.

The owner’s opening the stage up to performers, and you take a deep breath before grabbing your case. You’d already decided to go first; that’s the way you like it, because staying in a bar past 10 p.m. can only lead to things you’ll be ashamed of in the morning. Besides, maybe you can go home and get some writing done. Not that there’s much to inspire in this hole in the wall—you note a distinct lack of women your age, and you think this might be the first weekend you go home alone in a very long time.

Soon you’re sitting on the stool, pulling your Taylor (expensive, but secondhand) into your lap, and you start tuning by ear. This is one of your favorite parts of performing, the time just before, when it’s you and your guitar and a give and take for harmony, finding the right notes. A search for resolution. You’ve got the high e in tune and you swallow hard before looking up.

You _really_ hate neon lights. You wonder why the owner couldn’t have invested in a few yellow spotlights instead of the gaudy greens and purples you can feel burning on your cheeks, your forehead.

The crowd looks bored, continuing their conversations and avoiding your gaze. And it’s not that you want to command their attention, but damn it, they could at least give you the opening verse before they decide you're not worth listening to. You think a lot about how how little control you have in writing these songs. This music has willed itself to be written, has kept you up until the sun rises, has the rare ability to pull you out of yourself. So you need it to be heard. It demands to be heard, if only by one person. And, you guess, that’s really what brought you here tonight.

You clear your throat into the mic, strumming out a few quick chords for a final soundcheck. It’s not that you’re nervous, not really—you’ve been trained in stage presence, and you catch a flash of your father pressing a gentle hand into your back, fixing your posture. You sit up straighter. You’re not nervous, you swear, but your hands shake a little as they cradle the neck, curling around a modified G chord. It’s your first time performing for a group of people since you were 17, and so much has changed, so much has been lost. You lick your lips, look down at your foot keeping time on the worn wood.

“Wrote this one a few weeks ago,” you say, and it’s enough of an introduction.

You hammer on a C chord. You close your eyes and it’s so easy now, like you were made to do this. You let yourself forget who you wrote this song for because you know the emotion will catch in your throat even without the memories.

You came here to forget.

You sing strong, layering your voice over the constantly hammering chords. The words flow from your mouth, filling first in your lungs, and your throat burns from the hours you’ve spent perfecting this song on the floor of your apartment.

_You remind me of cigarettes_

You don’t smoke—you tried it once in high school, but your father found out, and that was the end of that—but _she_ did, and you think you get the idea. That you hold something, intimately, deeply, and then you let it go, because what choice do you have when it never belongs to you in the first place? You didn’t have a choice.

_Once you’ve had me, you don’t have me anymore_

Your eyes are still closed, your mouth pressing against the microphone, your right hand strumming up and down, building with the song. You feel like you’re being pulled toward something, and you’re not sure what, but it’s like your heart is falling out when you shift up to that modified D—it feels full in your hands and you’re hitting the high notes perfectly. You feel on fire everywhere.

You hit the bridge, dropping down and finding whatever’s left in you to crescendo into the final verse. You’re singing about how smooth she is (was) and for a moment you feel your whole life suspended, you feel like you belong to these words and these chords and your head sways back and forth in surrender.

The song resolves. You open your eyes to a smattering of applause, of which you make no acknowledgement. You're pretty confident in your performance; you hit the falsetto on the chorus, gave it enough edge that it didn't sound grating and one-dimensional, and that's all you were really worried about.

You finish packing up, pushing the brass fasteners of your beat-up case shut tight, and all you’re looking at is the empty seat at the bar. You tell yourself as you’re packing up your Taylor that you should head home—you’re on a slight adrenaline high from performing, and it should be enough. It should be enough but you crave the coming down, you need your thoughts fuzzy, soft around the edges so you can sleep tonight, because music is your respite from remembrance but the room is just noise now. You think in some alternate universe, you're playing for thousands of people, being offered a thousand free drinks after your show. But your universe is singular in more ways than one.

So you make your way to the bar and when you look up, you see a head of long, honey blond hair spin around. You hadn’t noticed her when you walked in, but whoever she is, she was clearly watching you play, and you can’t help but smirk and snag the seat next to her.

You’re curious. And you’re very into making bad decisions lately.

She’s sitting there with her head down, and you can tell she’s blushing. She’s rubbing the palm of her hand with her thumb and you wonder if it’s something she does when she’s nervous, when she's anxious. You decide you’d like to find out.

“Mind if I buy you a drink?” Her head snaps up and you finally see her face—beet red and, you can’t help but notice, beautiful. Soft in a way you wish you were. Her eyes are big as saucers, a kind of caramel brown, and she’s biting her bottom lip. She looks around for a moment like she’s confused.

“Who, me?”

You chuckle. “Yes, you. What you drinking there, cupcake?”

She looks down at her beer, nearly drained.

“Oh. I…don’t know my beers very well. I just asked for whatever was on tap.” You raise your eyebrows at that. She doesn’t drink but something brought her here tonight, to this shitty bar outside town. You wonder if she's a university student—she certainly looks young enough. But then again, so do you, and you haven’t set foot on a college campus in years.

“Whiskey it is, then.” Her eyes get wider (if that’s even possible) and she shakes her head.

“Oh, I really don’t think I should-“

“Come on, cutie. Live a little. Besides,” you say, flagging down the bartender, “you look like you could use it.”

She sags a little. You almost feel bad. Almost. You order two whiskeys neat before turning back to her.

“So what’s your story, cutie?”

She narrows her eyes, sits up a little straighter.

“Laura,” she says assertively. “My name is Laura.”

“Okay, Laura. Really couldn’t find anything better than this shitty ass bar on a Friday night?”

She’s rubbing her palm again as the bartender sets your drinks down in front of you. Definitely a nervous tick.

“I live pretty close to here,” she answers. “And…I just needed to get away from my roommates for a while, I guess.” But you can tell it’s not the truth, at least not the whole truth.

“I see. I'm Carmilla, by the way.” She smiles and your chest tightens a little.

"Why am I not surprised that you have some cool, enigmatic rockstar name?" You laugh because she's right, because you definitely wouldn't need a stage name if you ever made it big. But that dream feels as far as ever and Laura is here in front of you so you’re watching her out of the corner of your eye as you take a swig of your drink, reveling in the burn in your throat. She brings her glass to her mouth cautiously, sipping a tiny amount. Her face scrunches up at the taste and you laugh out loud; even you can’t deny how adorable she is.

“Enigmatic, huh?” But she’s in the middle of her first tentative drink of whiskey, and you watch her face twist up as it hits her tongue.

“Eckkk,” she says. “Holy hell, that is strong.”

“That _is_ why people like drinking it, I suppose.”

There’s silence between you for a moment and she looks as if she wants to say something. You look away from her, giving her the space to decide. You’re starting to feel a buzz from the whiskey you’ve all but downed when you hear her suck in a breath.

“You were really beautiful, by the way. On stage, I mean. The song was beautiful. Really amazing.” She’s blushing again and you know it’s not because of the alcohol. Still, you can’t help but smile at her compliment. You offer a simple “thank you” and a nod, and suddenly something clicks in her, suddenly she’s opening up.

“Did you really write that yourself? How long have you been playing guitar? You must have started when you were, like, five, because wow, you’re really great.”

“I did,” you answer. “And I’ve been playing for about four years now.”

"Four years?! That's it? Wow. I've picked up a guitar once or twice but I really don’t have any musical ability. Maybe I just need you as a teacher." She seems to regret the words the instant she says them because she stops, looking at you with those big eyes, and then she scratches the back of her neck nervously.

“I mean, uh—”

"I'd be happy to give a pretty girl like you a lesson," you respond with a wink, "free of charge."

You're worried she might start hyperventilating and you're wondering how a girl this gorgeous can be so clearly inept at flirting. But you don't care—there's something in the pit of your stomach (and it might be the alcohol, but you don't think one drink is enough to convince you) that says you should keep her around a little longer, if only for tonight.

"I'd like that," she says softly, and she's definitely trying to flirt back now. You feel your confidence grow as your glass empties. Things are softer around the edges now and all you can really think about, look at, are her lips. She’s sipping the last of her whiskey and the way she licks her lips makes your chest swell, and you feel brave (for once.)

“You want to get out of here? Maybe go for a walk?” And yeah, you’ve been doing this almost every weekend lately, but your hand is shaking slightly as you rest it under your chin and it tells you that maybe this is different. She’s looking you in the eye and you feel like you can see her at war with herself.

So it surprises you when she leans in a little closer and almost whispers “Sure. Why the hell not?”

You slap a few bills down on the counter before grabbing your guitar and heading out the door with Laura on your heels.

* * *

 

You’re slightly tipsier than anticipated, running on a mostly-empty stomach and leftover adrenaline, and so you can’t help but grin as you walk down the street, her fingers laced in yours and your leather jacket draped around her. It's finally autumn, your favorite time of year and hers, she tells you at least three times.

She's leading you along, and you both laugh when you ask her where you're going, when she all but yells "to infinity and beyond!" with a finger pointed toward the sky. You feel so young, for once, and you wonder if maybe you’d like to give her the world.

It’s a distinct possibility.

She stops suddenly, pulling at your hand and pointing your conjoined fingers toward the heavens.

“Look, Carm, you can actually see some stars tonight!” The nickname catches you off-guard and so you stare at her for a few seconds, her head lifted up and her eyes wide in awe, before you look up, too.

And she’s right—the glow from the city light is normally enough to block out any stars, but the night is so clear that you can even see a few constellations flickering a million miles away. All you can think is that she’s so close in comparison; you can hear her breathing next to you, deep and even, and you can hear your heart hammering in your chest the way your fingers did on the fretboard. You feel like you should write a song about the way her cheeks glow.

“Don’t you love it?” she asks, and you’re not sure exactly what she’s referring to—at this moment, there are a lot of things you love. Like the smell of her hair when you move in closer, like the few inches of height between you, like the cold breeze and the sound of rustling leaves from the park across the street. But most of all, you do love the stars. You love their impartiality, you love that they stay there, hanging, and you wonder why, wonder how, wonder who hung them in the first place. You want to ask her, but the question gets caught in your throat when you look down to find her lips so close to yours.

“It’s infinite,” she whispers, and it’s so reverent you can’t help but wonder how much she had to drink before you showed up.

Before you can ask, she’s pushing up on her tiptoes to press her lips against yours, and you feel a galaxy form in your chest (it turns out infinity feels like freedom, spreading wide open in your ribcage). She’s surrounding you like fresh air, nothing like smoke, and her bottom lip tastes sweet when you suck it lightly between your lips.

You break apart when your teeth mash together, and you rest your forehead on hers as you both laugh, slightly out of breath.

“Do you want to…?” she says, tugging at the ends of your hair, and you know what she wants because it’s burning like an ember or a supernova inside you, too.

“Yeah. My place is close, c’mon.” You kiss her quickly before tugging her hand in the direction of your apartment. She’s still laughing and you never want it to stop—you want her like you want the stars.

She holds your hand tight and walks quickly ahead of you, her steps determined and ultimately a little shaky from the alcohol. And she doesn’t know where she’s going, but you think you might follow her anywhere.

* * *

 

You’re barely inside your front door before you’re shoving her up against it, kissing her lips, kissing her neck, up and down, sucking on her earlobe. You practically throw your guitar case into the corner (thank god for hard shells) before you're grabbing at her waist, pulling her into you. She’s loud—you can tell already—and it makes you smirk against her hot skin. You’re kissing her again and she’s trying to form words around your mouth, something like “wait, wait, we should...move this...to the bedroom…” So you grab the backs of her thighs, lifting her off the ground, and she wraps her legs around your waist.

You watch as her silhouette forms, carrying her from the dark of your entryway to your bedroom, dimly lit from the convenience store signs across the street. Her skin looks purple then bright pink, blue as you set her down on your bed gently. She moves up to rest her head on the pillow and you crawl on top of her slowly, looking at her through thick eyelashes.

“You do this a lot?” she asks playfully, and you give her a noncommittal hum before capturing her lips with yours once more. You don’t think you could count the number of heads that have laid on that pillow in the past 3 months if you wanted to, but you’re not going to tell her that.

Instead, you grind against her, and the moan she gives in response lights up some sort of fire in your chest. You press yourself closer to her, fitting a knee between her legs, and you’re surprised when she runs her hands along your hips, moving up to brush against the sides of your breasts. Your tongue is in her mouth, licking at the backs of her teeth and the roof of her mouth, and the hand that’s not supporting your weight next to her head reaches down to find the hem of her shirt, pulling at it before reaching underneath to brush your fingers against the skin of her stomach. She’s so warm to the touch and you think you might implode if you don’t get to touch her soon.

“Is it okay if I…?” you ask, trailing off and grabbing at her shirt again.

“Yeah,” she responds, and you can feel her smiling against your mouth. You feel like dying, just a little. You sit up, giving space to let yourself pull her shirt above her head and throwing it to your side. When you look back, her hair is fanned out on your yellow pillow, her chest heaving in nothing but a deep purple bra, and she tugs you down, kissing you deeply. She’s beautiful, even with your eyes closed, she’s so beautiful, and yet you feel your thoughts drifting, you feel that emotion start to build, the one you’re trying your best to drown in alcohol and sex.

But before you know it, it’s there, in the front of your mind: the overwhelming guilt, the sorrow, the shame. Before you know it, you’re back to hating every part of yourself, and so you kiss her deeper, more urgently, pulling at her lips with your teeth. You move down the column of her neck to the top of her breast, sucking and biting what you’re sure will be bruises in the morning. But you can’t bring yourself to care because she’s whining high pitched into the silence of your bedroom and each time you lose yourself in it, just for the moment, and you belong to her and not to the ghosts that have made homes inside of you.

You sigh, grabbing the back of her hair and meeting her mouth again. It’s hot and rushed, you know, but it’s what you need, and she doesn’t seem to mind. Not until...

“Wait,” she murmurs against your lips, and when you open your eyes you’re surprised to see hers staring up at you.

“What now, cupcake?” You don’t mean to sound annoyed, but you were kind of in the middle of something. Or trying to do something, rather. She looks nervous, chewing on her bottom lip again and avoiding your gaze.

“You know I can see you, right?” She’s whispering now, whispering into your dark room and you feel like the walls are starting to shake.

“What?” She sighs.

“I can...I can see you. I don’t think you want to do this.”

You pull away from her, untangling your legs and sitting next to her on the bed. You huff audibly, because who is she to decide what you do and don’t want? And you realize it’s you that’s shaking, not the walls, when she continues.

“I think you’re hurting, I—I can see it." Her words are gentle, like she's afraid you might yell at her, and your hands ball into fists. "I don’t think you want to do this. You just want to forget. It’s okay. But I’m not here to be used.”

You look at her incredulously because what the fuck does she know? You met this girl a little over an hour ago and what could she possibly know, what could she possibly understand, from a song and a drink and your breath in her mouth, only for a moment? You feel on fire in a different kind of way.

“You should go,” you say, finding her shirt on the floor next to the blood and throwing it at her roughly. She looks reluctant, moving to pull on her discarded clothes slowly.

“Carmilla, I’m sor—”

“Forget it. Just go.” You get up, pacing slowly around the bedroom until she’s dressed, and then you make your way through your apartment to the front door, unlocking and opening it wide without looking at her. You’re staring intently at the crack in the hardwood flooring and she’s lingering at the door, something that only serves to make you more angry.

“Carmilla, I didn’t mean to make you upset, really, I—”

“God,” you breathe, “just get the fuck _out_.”

You wonder why it’s so hard for her to leave when it was so easy for you.

And you regret how harsh your words were, but if it gets her out of the apartment, it’s worth it. You chance a glance at her and think you spot tears shining in her eyes. You feel self-repulsion bubble in your chest (it’s made its home there, anyways).

“Fine,” she says, and she tries to sound strong but her voice breaks, so she grabs the doorknob roughly and slams the door shut behind her. The sound echoes throughout the empty apartment, and it’s all you can do not to smash your fist into the nearest wall. You flick the deadbolt before making your way back to the bedroom, collapsing on your bed and swallowing the screams burning at your throat.

You cover your face with one arm, trying to block out the obnoxious fluorescent lighting, but then all you can see is her face beneath you, soft for you, worried for you, and you feel like vomiting.

Your room is bright green now. You move to the window, pull the curtain shut.

You hate neon.


	2. Separator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs featured: 
> 
> Separator / Noah Gundersen  
> Middle of June / Noah Gundersen  
> Learning How to Die / Jon Foreman
> 
> check out the playlist here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLvdj6L_EztKwAcDs2cG3EsTSfkC1z4M07

It’s your first time working a morning shift in at least a year—you try to avoid the Sunday church-goers and obnoxious nuclear families as much as possible—but someone called in sick and you could really use the money. Your only true consolation is that the place is packed, leaving you little headspace to ruminate on the sad state of your life. (Not that you don’t already do that at home. You’re barely sleeping now.)

You're busy pouring your hundredth cup of decaf of the day when you hear the bell on the door ring and happen to glance up.

_No. Fucking. Way._

Laura's walking in the door behind a group of friends, giggling at some joke you can't hear, and you feel your face burn bright red.

_This cannot be happening._

And because you're a coward, you scurry back to the kitchen, pretending to check for orders you know aren't ready. But Betty, the waitress working the other section, shoots you a sharp glance as she flits from one table to another, and she mouths to with eyes narrowed toward the door: "Can you get that?"

You swallow hard, looking back at the door where she and her friends are waiting. You don’t think she’s spotted you yet, giving you approximately five seconds to figure out how you’re gonna do this. You brush the accumulated shit off your pants (you _really_ hate waitressing), swipe your thumb over the tattoo on your wrist, and suddenly you’re out of time.

“Three?” you ask, fixing your eyes on her ginger friends and avoiding her gaze all together. The curly haired one nods with a smile and you grab a few menus before spinning on your heel quickly, pretending you don’t glimpse Laura out of the corner of your eye.

And sure, maybe ignoring the situation altogether isn’t the most mature approach, but you’re sweaty and tired and so _not_ in the mood to fight with an almost-one night stand at 9 a.m. on a Sunday. So when Laura slides into the booth opposite her friends, you throw her menu down without looking, and it nearly falls into her lap. You rattle off the specials quickly before taking the gingers’ drink orders, and now you know you’re caught.

You do your best to ignore the indignant look on her face, try not to get caught up in the way her jaw has dropped, and you stare at the wall just beyond her when you ask, “and for you?”

She’s pouting now, you can see it out of the corner of your eye.

“Hot chocolate,” she says, and her voice is contrastingly cold. You fight back the sigh you feel expanding in your chest, and your fingers itch all of a sudden for the strings of your guitar, for the safety of your fretboard.

“Great,” you murmur before you all but run from her table; the next few minutes are spent refilling drinks, serving a couple with a clear lack of regard for PDA, and wondering at what point Laura will release the full force of her hostility.

You try to convince yourself that you’re not scared of her.

You don't feel guilty about the decision you made to kick her out, but you feel guilty for the way you treated her; it didn't take you more than a few minutes to realize that your anger only stemmed from the truth of her assumptions. Laura read you like a fucking book, and so you pushed her away.

It’s what you do: you take the easy way out, and then you write songs about how hard it was. (And right now you’re pretending the song you were up at 4 a.m. working on isn’t about her.)

You twirl the end of your ponytail nervously as you make Laura’s hot chocolate, stirring the cacao into the steaming water. You chance a glance over your shoulder and it could be your imagination, but you think you catch her staring at you, eyebrows narrowed. You turn quickly and attempt to control your breathing by humming out the riff you’d discovered early this morning between your first and second cup of coffee. You think you taste the opening lines when you slip your hand against the warmth of her cup, setting it on a tray next to her friends’ coffee and juice.

  
_don’t you wish you could go back_  
_when your heart sang like a burning branch?_

Her arms are crossed when you get back to her table, and a part of you wishes she would just get it over with, cause a scene in this restaurant and scream at you. God knows you deserve it.

You try not to eavesdrop on her conversation (she makes it hard to, regardless, talking a mile a minute), but your curiosity is piqued when you hear the words “professor,” “Silas,” and “graduation.”

And yeah, you can’t deny that you wish you’d gotten to know her a little better before attempting to use her for meaningless sex. Suddenly the guilt of what you done overwhelms you (and it’s a guilt that belongs only to her—every other one-night-stand was just that, long forgotten by morning).

You’re rushed, eager to get away from her again, and so your shaking hands spill a good amount of her hot chocolate onto the table in front of her.

This is the closest thing to stage fright you’ve experienced since you were a kid.

“Crap,” you mumble, “let me just get…” but when you turn to grab some napkins off the counter behind you, you feel a hand brush against yours quickly before pulling back. You face her and finally, finally meet her eyes.

“It’s okay,” she says softly, and it’s like she realizes how lost you are, “I’ve got it.” She uses her napkin to mop up the mess you’ve made.

“I’m sorry. Let me get you another.”

She shakes her head. “I’m fine. Really. Thank you, though.”

“If you’re sure,” you say, and it’s like you’re seeing her for the first time that day. You can’t help but stare, wonder what caused her sudden benevolence, the almost stubborn softness in her eyes.

She’s nodding and you can feel her friends staring; they’d have to be blind not to notice something between the two of you. You think you hear a hushed “who is that?” as you walk away after getting their orders (Laura orders chocolate chip pancakes, and somehow you’re not surprised). The rest of the morning passes without incident, though you glance at Laura a little longer than necessary when you’re setting down her plate.

You know you should say something. You’ve had limited interaction with this girl, but you can tell how sweet she is (you can still taste how sweet she was, there underneath the stars), and you know she deserves much better than to bear the brunt of your cowardice. So when she stands up to leave, pulling on her light wash denim jacket and laughing with her friends, you will your hands to stop shaking, you all but abandon the table you’re in the middle of serving, you clear your throat like you do when you sing.

“Wait,” you call out, “Laura.” And you see her stand a little taller as she turns to face you, see her friends walking out the door, oblivious. She closes the distance between you—you can smell that same shampoo in her hair, and you can’t help but stare at the same freckle at the corner of her mouth.

Her lip quivers. “Yeah?”

You sigh. How do you say ‘sorry for trying to fuck you and then throwing you out on your ass’ without sounding like a complete asshole?

“I’m sorry. For what happened...I’m sorry. Let me buy you a coffee, make it up to you?” You rub at the calluses on your hands absentmindedly, and you feel for once like you might be forgiven. It sits between you, heavy, and you write a new lyric before she can even respond.

_the great separator comes for me_

“I don’t drink coffee,” she says, and you feel your whole body sag.

At least you tried.

“But,” you raise your eyes from the black and white tile you’d been staring at, “I suppose you do owe me another hot chocolate. I’m free on Thursday afternoon?”

You feel yourself smiling for the first time in weeks (the first time since _her)_ , and she’s smiling back in a way that makes her glow, makes your bones shake.

“Thursday it is, then.”

* * *

You meet Laura at a campus coffee shop not far from your apartment. You buy her the best hot chocolate waitressing money can buy, as promised, and when she takes the cup from your hand, her fingers brush against your palm.

Somehow, you manage to find a small corner table amongst the sea of students; the place is cramped and smells overwhelmingly of hazelnut, but Laura’s cheeks are flushed from the cold wind outside and she’s not looking at you like you’re the devil. You count your blessings on calloused fingers.

“So, Laura Hollis,” you say, and you like the way her full name, the one she’d put into your phone at the diner, flows off your tongue, “what is it you do here?” You gesture out the window at the surrounding campus, saturated in reds, yellows, greens as autumn falls to the ground. You think you should write a song about how warm you feel sitting across from her when she smiles in response.

“I’m a journalism major! Focusing on broadcast journalism. I’m working on my senior project this year, investigating the extent of sexism on campus, and it’s just…” she covers her face with her hands for a moment before throwing them out in front of her, almost knocking over her hot chocolate, “ugh. So much fun! I mean, sexism isn’t fun, obviously, but the investigating is so, so fun. I really love it.”

“Why am I not surprised that I’m looking at the next Katie Couric?”

She shrugs, runs her finger around the rim of her cup.

“I don’t know about that.” But the way the corners of her mouth pull up almost imperceptibly, the way she glances out the window tells you that she _does_ know about that, that she’s thought about it more than you can imagine.

“What about you, Carmilla? What’s your story?” You let out a chuckle, take a long drink of your coffee. There aren’t enough apology coffee dates in the world to explain yourself, to explain what lead you to throwing Laura out of your apartment on a Friday night. So you stick to the basics, because she’ll have forgotten you by next week, anyways.

“Moved to the city when I was 18—never went to college. Been waitressing since I got here.” And that’s it, really. You’re surprised at how little there is to you when it’s said aloud.

“When did you start playing guitar? I swear, you should, like, have a record deal already because wow, you’re good.”

Her question catches you off guard, sends you back to that pawn shop window display down the street from your first apartment. You remember the draw you felt back then, the sudden itch for wood and brass and sound, again, and you think it’s maybe not so different from the pull you feel now, to smooth hands and a sing-song voice.

“A couple months after I moved here. Needed something to fill my free time, I guess.”

“That’s so cool. I think I’m pretty much tone deaf, so I’m kind of in awe of anyone with any sort of musical talent. My roommate, LaF, plays drums, and I’m pretty sure they get sick of me hanging around whenever they’re practicing."

She looks hesitant for a moment, biting her lip and rubbing her palm (you wonder if she notices when she does this).

“There’s...there’s some pretty nice practice rooms here on campus. In the music building. If you want, I could take you some time? I’m sure you get sick of just practicing in your apartment and I’d love to hear more of your stuff if you have it. But, I mean, it’s totally up to you, I just thought it might be—”

“Laura,” you cut her off, and you can’t believe _she’s_ nervous around _you_ , “I’d like that.”

You let her do most of the talking, mostly because communication isn’t really your thing, but it’s an added bonus that you get to learn a lot about Laura. You wouldn’t have guessed it by looking at her, but she’s a total nerd; she spends at least 20 minutes talking your ear off about Doctor Who, and you think if it were anyone else, you’d want to bash your head into a wall. But you can’t help but admire the passion you feel radiating off of her and god, you wish you could feel something that much.

She laughs at you for having grown up in the suburbs (“I’m just imagining you as a soccer mom right now,”) and she asks you more about your music (“Is it all going to make me feel like I should be living in a log cabin?”). You lie when she asks if you play any other instruments, and you grimace when she asks if you’re planning on playing more in public.

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “might have just been a one-time thing.”

She eyes you suspiciously.

“Well, you don’t seem to have stage fright and—you do have more songs, right?”

You nod. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve written quite a few.” 

“Then you definitely should! I mean, you can’t waitress forever, right? And,” she blushes, “I don’t know. You seem like something special. You’ll probably be at the Grammy’s five years from now, or something.”

“I don’t know about that, cutie. It’s just a hobby.”

“Well, I know there are some open mic events on campus each week. You could totally pass as a student.”

You sigh, looking out the window. You’re never sure of what you want, never confident enough to put yourself out there like you know you should. But you think maybe she’s right, maybe you should start making these kinds of decisions.

“We’ll see.”

She talks a lot about her dad but never her mom, and it’s an absence you can empathize with. You learn her hometown’s not far from here, about four hours out in the middle of nowhere, and you snort into your coffee when you find out she was homeschooled.

“Hey!” she protests. “We’re not all weird loners. My father was just very...protective.” And so you wonder where her restlessness came from because you’re definitely something dangerous and you can tell she knows it when she looks you in the eyes. You wonder if it’s pure rebellion or something else, a spark she’s had all along.

“And yet you choose to spend your time with strangers you meet in bars. Questionable judgment, cupcake.”

“Well,” she says carefully, a smile teasing her lips, “you seemed like a weird loner. Opposites attract, right?” A big part of you wants to wipe the smirk off her face, but you wonder if she knows how close she is to the truth.

“Is this what I get for buying you hot chocolate? Verbal abuse?”

“Call ‘em like I see ‘em.” She grins and you can’t help but chuckle. You like that she’s got a bite to her, but you can’t help but feel transparent when she’s around.

“Well, as much as I’d love to continue this pleasant conversation, I think I should let you get home. Wouldn’t want to impede your education, would I?”

She takes a long drink of her hot chocolate, finishing it off.

“You’re probably right. I have a paper due Saturday I haven’t started yet.”

She stands to pull on her jacket, and you do the same, following her to the door.

“Guess I’ll see you around, then, Laur-”

“Wait!” she says, cutting you off. “Walk me home?”

You’re surprised when you look outside, finding the sky a dusky gray, red, orange. You’d been here for hours without noticing.

“Yeah. ‘Course.” Her nose scrunches up when she smiles, and you think you’d do anything to see her do it again.

You follow her across campus and she acts as a tour guide, pointing and calling out the names of the gothic buildings on the quad. She’s walking close enough that her shoulder brushes yours every few seconds, so when you feel her fall away, you turn to find her. Phone in hand, she waves you forward.

“No, no, keeping walking! You look so cool with the sunset.”

You huff, pretending to be annoyed, but you turn around, walking away from her slowly with your hands in the pockets of your leather jacket.

“Am I done, cutie?” you yell, and you hear her running up behind you.

“Yep!” she says when she catches up, practically knocking you over.

“Are you always this obsessive about documentation?” you ask, and she rolls her eyes.

“Uh, journalism major here. Kinda comes with the territory.”

Your hum of agreement catches in your throat when her hand accidentally grazes yours, and you both pull apart quickly.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, and you keep your eyes fixed on the ground in front of you, shove your hands in your pockets again. You can’t help but remember what her fingers felt like laced in yours, how soft her hands were cradling your jaw.

You’re both silent the rest of the way, and you’re surprised to find her apartment is only a few blocks from yours.

“So...” she starts when you reach the building’s front door.

“So.” There’s an awkward silence between you, stiffer than when you were walking. “Should we—?”

“Do you want to—?”

You both laugh nervously at having talked over each other, and you feel like a lovesick teenager.

“Sorry,” she chuckles, still smiling, “go ahead.”

“Well,” you say, regaining some of your lost confidence, “I believe you said something about a practice room?” 

“Oh! Yeah! Uhm, does next Thursday work for you? Same time?”

You cannot believe you’re asking this girl to spend time with you again, and you can’t believe she’s agreeing to it again after what you’ve done.

“Yeah, yeah. That works for me.” You make a mental note to switch shifts with Betty again next Thursday, and you wonder if maybe this will become a weekly thing. You think you wouldn’t mind a weekly morning shift if it meant your afternoon was spent with Laura.

“Great! I’ll text you the address.”

You nod. “Okay. I...guess I’ll see you then.”

“Bye, Carm. Thanks for the hot chocolate.”

“Any time.”

She blinks at you slowly, her cheeks rosy from the wind, and you force yourself to tear your eyes from her lips, to walk away.

You hear her open the door behind you, and before you really know what you want to say, you’re spinning on your heel.

“Laura,” you say, and you wonder why this keeps happening—first at the diner and now here, in front of her apartment—you wonder why you can’t seem to watch her walk away again.

She turns, her hand frozen on the doorknob, and her voice is soft, quiet when she responds. “Yeah?”

You take a deep breath, feeling the chilly air fill your chest, and you feel, more than anything, like a coward, because _shit_ , you didn’t even _apologize_ to her.

“Why?” you ask. “Why don’t you hate me?” _You should hate me_ , you think.

Her hand still grasping at the door, she sighs. She looks at the pavement for a moment before holding your gaze, and you don’t think you’ve ever felt so visible in your life. It’s intimidating, but she’s beautiful, and she feels like the honesty you’ve been searching for for so long, so you keep your eyes on hers.

“I don’t really know.” Her eyelashes flutter shut for a moment before she finds you again. “I guess...I just thought you deserved a second chance.” And even though you don’t agree, you believe her because the conviction in her voice is too heavy to ignore.

You know you should thank her (you think you should probably fall to your knees and worship her), but you can’t seem to do anything but stare, watching as she sucks her bottom lip lightly.

“See you next week, Carm.” And then she pulls the door open, walks inside, and you lose her.

You’re halfway home when you pull out your phone, pulling up your message thread.

 _I’m glad you did.  
_ (Read: 7:38 PM)

* * *

As it turns out, you _do_ wind up changing your work schedule.

Thursday afternoons become your favorite time of the week: time spent in a slightly cramped, carpeted practice room in Silas’ music department building, time spent with Laura and your guitar.

You admit it was awkward at first, her sitting there with wide eyes as you pulled out your Taylor, waiting for you to play something. It hadn’t surprised you that she made you nervous, your hands shaking and fucking up basic chords. But by the end of the first day, you’d gotten more comfortable around her, stopped walking on eggshells and waiting for her to scream at you.

By the third week, your Thursdays with Laura feel routine, and whatever’s going on between the two of you has started to feel a lot like trust. You try not to let it scare you.

You’ve spent the last few weeks figuring out the song you started the morning before she walked into the diner (you wonder if she knows it’s about her). She’s helped you hammer out the lyrics, deciding what sounds best, and you find you appreciate her input. Despite her lack of musicality—she’s tried to sing a couple bars of the song, and you laugh each time because yeah, she wasn’t kidding about being tone deaf—she has good intuition, and she doesn’t hold back in telling you what works and what doesn’t.

You think this song (the one she’s officially named “Separator”) will always sound like her (belong to her)—the way your fingers dance on the fretboard during the verses, the way she looks at you as your voice rumbles low on the chorus—it’s all so distinctly Laura.

You finish playing it through for her, having finally filled in the second verse lyrics, and she claps as you finish the last chord.

“It sounds so good, Carm! _Please_ tell me you’re playing that one tomorrow night.” She’d walked in last week with a flyer promoting an open mic night at the coffee shop you’d taken her to, the one you visit each Thursday for a latte and a hot chocolate before you head to the music department.

“It’s possible, cutie,” but what you haven’t told her is that you’ve been working on another song, one you’ve had the bones of for years but hadn't been able to flesh out until recently. You’re still toying with the idea of surprising her with it tomorrow.

She frowns.

“Laur-aaaa,” she drawls, and you laugh because it’s become a sort of game between the two of you; she insists on you calling her by her name, but it gets her all wound up when you don’t. “Lau-ra. Laura. See? Easy. And you better play it eventually, after all the time we’ve spent on it!”

“I’ll be sure to put it on my first album, how’s that?” you ask sarcastically.

“Good. Thank you.” Most days, you think she has more confidence in you than you do in yourself.

You hammer out the opening chords to “Cigarettes” because you know it always makes her happy to hear that one (“that’s where it all started, Carm!”). She smiles bright, leans back in her chair and closes her eyes. Your breath catches when you hear her humming along with the opening lines, and a part of you feels like you were made to sing to her. You laugh when you reach the bridge and she tries to harmonize with your voice, your hands continuing to play out the song.

“Shut up! I’m helping you. Keep singing, jerk.”

You finish out the song, chuckling through the words as she tries (and fails) to match your falsetto. You watch her as she loses herself in the song, pulling out her air guitar and strumming in the air, and you feel a joy so deep it numbs you.

You tell yourself then (and on your commute to work, and when you’re making breakfast, and when you’re trying to sleep and all you can think of is Laura’s smile) that it’s mere infatuation, that the warmth you feel for her is platonic, nothing more; after all, how could anyone who knows Laura not feel drawn to her? You tell yourself that it’ll pass, that soon you’ll settle yourself into an uncomplicated friendship with her, because you do _not_ get crushes and you do _not_ fall for the girls you meet in bars.

You tell yourself you’re not scared shitless of Laura Hollis.

But then she’s clapping and you feel a tug somewhere in your chest and your instinct is, of course, to run. She asks you for “one more song!,” though, and you can’t deny her.

“You want a new one, cutie?” She nods excitedly, and you try to remember the chord progression to a song you’d written in high school, a sweet little tune you’d worked out with your father all those years ago.

You set your capo, play around with Cs and and Gs and Fs until you have it down. You sing softly, forgetting half the lyrics, but she smiles at the resolution, swaying back and forth:

_But oh, how pretty is the middle of June_

And yeah, it’s October, but you swear you’ve never felt warmer.

Afterwards, you walk her home—another weekly ritual—and this time when her hand brushes against yours, neither of you pull away.

* * *

You spend the majority of your day off polishing the new song, figuring out where you want the hammers and making you sure you don’t trip up on the rhyme scheme of the chorus.

You want it to be perfect, and it’s funny, because that’s not something you’ve ever cared about. Growing up a musician, you learned to accept that your skill level would never surpass something only a little better than average. You could never engage with the more technical aspects of music, and whenever your father would try to instruct you, you’d distract him by composing something original on the spot, something for him to ooh and ahh over until he’d forgotten his original intentions.

But you want this song to be perfect—technically, lyrically, emotionally—because all you can think about is Laura’s face in the crowd. You’ve known her for little more than a month, but she’s pushed you further than you’ve been in years and you feel yourself getting serious about music again. You find yourself creating potential EP tracklists as you fall asleep (your insomnia seems to have cured itself), and you wonder what it would be like to play a real venue, to see your name lit up on the kiosk.

You practice Separator a few times, just in case, and before you know it, it’s 7 p.m. You pack up your Taylor, throw on your leather jacket and boots, and head out toward campus. You notice the increasing color change on the leaves, crunching reds and yellows under your heels, and you smile to yourself. You feel almost...giddy is the only word you can come up with. You barely recognize yourself these days.

Soon you’re yanking open the door of the coffee shop. They’ve cleared out the back corner of the room, and the place looks smaller than ever, tables crammed together tightly.

“Carm!” you hear, and you spot Laura at the same table by the window, waving a hand at you. She’s once again flanked by her ginger friends; the curly haired one smiles politely as you sit, but the other eyes you suspiciously, their arms crossed.

“I’m so glad you came,” Laura says, and you feel yourself blush. It’s strange to be around Laura in public, around her friends—you’re so used to having her all to yourself, insulated in your practice room, and you feel something possessive when you look at her.

 _Knock it off_ , you think. _She’s not yours._

But she slides a latte across the table for you (hazelnut, your favorite), and you can’t help but wish she was.

She gives you a formal introduction; you’re surprised to learn Turtleneck doesn’t actually live with Laura and is instead an RA in a campus dorm. You can’t tell if she and LaFontaine are together or not, but judging by the amount of time Laura’s suggested Perry spends at her apartment, you think there’s probably something there.

“I was just saying that you and LaF should play together some time, Carm.”

You smirk, and LaFontaine is all but glaring at you. You guess Laura’s had a heart-to-heart with her roommate about the night you met.

“Sorry cutie,” you say, taking a sip of your hot coffee, “this is a one-woman show.”

“Carmilla!” she scolds, and it makes you laugh. You’ve never met someone so easily wound up. “She doesn’t mean that,” Laura says, giving LaF an apologetic look.

“Oh, but I do.” And it’s true. You can’t imagine playing with anyone else, sharing your music with anyone else. You’re selfish, sure, but you’re not sorry about it.

One of the baristas announces that the event will start in a few minutes, and Laura excuses herself to use the restroom. You’re slightly worried about how awkward it’ll be without her around, but her friends, apparently, have other plans.

“So, Carmilla,” LaFontaine starts, turning toward you with their arms still crossed, “what exactly are your intentions with Laura?”

You lean your head into your hand, doing all you can not to sigh. _Seriously?_

“We’re friends,” you say, and it feels bitter on your tongue, like a lie. “Laura is an adult,” you remind them, and you look to Perry (who seems slightly more sensible) for support. “What she does is no one’s business but her own.”

They nod.

“That’s true. But from what she’s told me, you’re not exactly good news.”

“LaFontaine!” Perry exclaims. “Carmilla, we’re just worried about Laura, and as her friends, it’s our duty to—”

“To what?” you ask. “To monitor her life? Treat her like a child? Laura makes her own decisions. It just so happens that I’m one of them.” You feel angry for her; she hasn’t talked about her father a lot, but you know she’s still adjusting to a life without his constant protection, still trying to learn how to be her own person.

“Look, Laura just got out of a relationship, so if you’re planning on breaking her heart, you’ll have me to answer to.” And you get it, you get why LaF is doing their best to scare you—because Laura deserves the best, only the best, and it’s certainly not you.

Your throat feels tight.

“I wouldn’t do that,” you say, and it feels like another lie.

Before they can respond, Laura’s back, pulling out her chair and sitting down.

“It looks like they’re about to start!” She looks around, from Perry to LaF and then you, and she frowns.

“Everything okay over here?”

“Oh, yes,” Perry responds, “everything’s fine, Laura. Carmilla was just...feeling a little nervous.”

Laura looks skeptical.

“You don’t get stage fright,” she argues, and you’re thankful that the barista is now announcing the start of open mic, because you really don’t want to explain what had just been going on.

You reach down for your case, moving to stand, but Laura stops you.

“Where are you going?”

“Well, sweetheart, I was under the impression that you wanted me to play a song…”

“No!” she says. “You have to go last! How will people remember you if you’re first?” You can’t argue with her logic, but you make a show of being annoyed as you sit back down.

You’re forced to sit through some pretty terrible acts and a handful of decent ones. Laura looks particularly impressed with the spoken word poets, sitting on the edge of her seat with her hands folded in her lap. Still, you swear that during the more boring performances, the ones that let her lean back in her seat, look out the window, her knee brushes against yours too often to be a coincidence. She catches your eye every so often and you feel pangs of nervousness in your stomach when she smiles at you, motioning you to take your turn.

You stare straight ahead as you make your way to the front, running through the lyrics in your head one last time. You ease your nerves by running through your usual pre-performance ritual, carefully tuning each string and strumming out a few major chords in sequence. Most of the acts preceding you had used a mic, but looking up, you push it aside; the coffee shop is tiny, and you don’t think it’ll be a challenge to fill the room with your voice organically.

You see Laura sitting in the back of the room, looking at you with eager eyes and an ear-to-ear grin. You smirk. You strum out the opening chords.

And her face falls. Her jaw is practically wide open and her forehead is stitched together in a sort of angry disbelief that could only belong to Laura. You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing out loud, and you give her a slow wink before you start to sing.

_"I’m gonna miss you_   
_I’m gonna miss you when you’re gone"_

Laura leans back against the window, her arms crossed, still pouting, but her face softens as she listens.

_And I said “please_   
_don’t talk about the end_   
_don’t talk about how every living thing_   
_goes away,”_  
_ She said, “friend,” _

You’re not really sure where this song came from, why it decided to piece itself together after sitting fragmented in a notebook for years. But you like the subtle contradictions, the warmth of the chord progression behind a conversation about death. You like the way your voice drags on the chorus, the way it reverberates off the walls of the small room. You like how easy the main riff feels under your fingers, and you like how the crowd has gone quiet.

But mostly, you like the way Laura is looking at you.

_“Really, I’ve been learning how to die,”_

You feel fragile in that moment; you’re still not used to sharing this part of yourself with total strangers, and you’re not sure if having Laura there makes it better or worse. The song feels so easy, though, like clay in your hands, and you feel suspended, outside of yourself, if only for a moment. You close your eyes as the song finishes, and you imagine yourself on a much bigger stage, playing for thousands of people. You feel a smile play at your lips, and when you’re brought back to reality by the smattering of applause in the coffee shop, you find Laura once again.

You’ve never seen her look so happy, clapping and hooting in the back of the room for you, only for you. You think you’d sing that song a thousand times if it would make her happy.

And it’s only now, after weeks of denial, that you realize how hard you’re falling for Laura Hollis.

* * *

“I still can’t believe you _lied_ to me! For like, a whole week!” The sound of yours and Laura’s laughter carries down her street as you walk her home that night. Your footsteps are slow and heavy and at some point, Laura had reached out to link your pinkies together.

“Only a little white lie, cutie. Besides, you liked the song."

She looks coy. "I never said I didn't. When did you even write that?"

You shrug. “Past few weeks, mostly. I’ve been writing a lot.”

She gives you what you can only describe as a shit-eating grin. “I guess I’m just a great muse, huh?”

You feel your head shake and before you can stop yourself, you’re murmuring “you have no idea, sweetheart,” and it goes silent between the two of you for the first time all night. She looks introspective all of sudden and you can’t even begin to read her, to know what’s going on inside her head. You see the familiar brick of her building up ahead and you drop her hand because everything feels too close, and you walk behind her up the walkway to give her space.

She stops short before the door and turns to look at you.

“Carmilla?” she asks, her thumb digging into her palm.

“Mmm?”

“I just...I think you should perform more. Everyone there loved you and you just—it seems so natural for you. I think you have something really special.”

You feel a weight in your chest. This girl, all optimism and laughter, with a past still mysterious to you and a future with infinite potential, she sees you, sees you with all your crap, and she believes in you anyways.

You exhale slowly, setting your guitar case down on the sidewalk and pushing the hair from your eyes.

“Maybe you’re right.”

She takes a small step toward you and you feel a tension inside you, between you, stretched tight like guitar strings. You’ve done this enough times to know what’s about to happen, but it’s never made you feel like this; you don’t know the last time you felt any goddamn butterflies in your stomach.

She invades your space slowly; she places a hand on your waist, stepping toward you like she might scare you off if she moves too fast. She's close enough that you can smell her perfume—something flowery and bookish and so distinctly Laura—and you reach out to push a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

"Carmilla?" she breathes.

"Yeah?" you ask, half teasing and half feeling like you're on a ledge, like you're about to jump.

You think you see her smile before she tilts her head, closes her eyes, and you do the same just as her mouth meets yours.

It's nothing like the first time; her lips move languid against yours, and, for the most part, it's innocent. You want nothing more than to stay here forever, making out like teenagers in front of her building. You think Laura has managed to pull something out of you you thought you'd lost for good, and when you trace her top lip with your tongue, when she hums in your mouth, you think it's better than any song you'll ever write.

You wrap one arm around her waist, pulling her closer, and your other hand reaches behind her back, playing with the curled ends of her long hair. You feel her nails scratching lightly just behind your ear and you moan quietly.

She pulls away from you then, laughing for only you to hear. Her eyes are so bright.

"What are you, a cat?" She scratches again and you lean your head into her hand.

You think of a dozen dirty responses but hold back, wanting to keep things PG for her sake. Instead, you kiss her again once, twice, soft pecks she smiles into. She lets out a long breath and buries her head in your neck, wraps her arms around you tight. You cradle her head in your hand and you think she might be rocking you back and forth slowly.

You stay like that for who knows how long until you hear two sets of footsteps approaching behind you. Laura pulls herself from your arms, despite your reluctance to let go.

"Hey, guys," she calls out, and you look to find Perry and LaFontaine arm in arm coming down the sidewalk. LaF gives you a look of reproach when you sigh, shoving your fists into your pockets.

"Sorry," they say, "we didn't mean to interrupt anything."

"Great," you bite back with sarcasm, because you only get one do-over first kiss with Laura, and you certainly wish it had lasted longer than it did. "Laura and I were just..." you say, looking toward her and then the door, asking her to invite you up.

"Carmilla was just about to head home," Laura offers, and you feel your shoulders sink. She's rubbing her thumb into her palm as her friends make their way to the door.

"Oh," Perry squeaks as LaFontaine unlocks the front door, "well, have a safe night, Carmilla. And great job tonight. You were quite lovely."

You give her a quick nod before turning to Laura; you see the gingers disappear out of the corner of your eye.

"You could make an effort to be nicer, you know," she teases, and you pout even more.

"But where's the fun in that?" you ask, and she rolls your eyes.

"I'm proud of you," she says simply, and you know she's talking about your performance. "Call me tomorrow?"

"Anything you want, sweetheart," you say, and you want to kiss her one last time, want to go to sleep with her on your lips, but she grins and pecks your cheek quickly. She goes to unlock the door and you feel the absence of her warmth immediately. She casts you one last look before she steps inside, the door closing behind her.

You breathe in, the cold air stinging in your chest, but you're smiling wide as you make your way down the walk.

Your trip home is filled with thoughts of her. You have no idea what this means for your relationship, but you're glad you seem to be done dancing around each other. You're struck once more by the depth of her forgiveness, of her trust, and you feel responsible for the way her heart feels, responsible for making her happy. It's the least you can do after all she's given you.

And it hits you suddenly: you don’t know what she’s getting out of this relationship. You don’t see how watching someone play guitar every Thursday afternoon could possibly be interesting. You don’t know what she wants from you, from your relationship, and honestly, you don’t know exactly what you want from her.

You just know you haven’t been this happy in years, and when she kisses you, everything that’s been stagnant for years starts moving again. And you think your little practice room feels more like home than your apartment ever has.

You round the corner of your street and are surprised to see a figure standing at the front door of your building. You put your head down, walking quickly, because there are few things you hate more than casual interactions with strangers. But as you pull out your keys to unlock the door, your eyes on the pavement, what you hear is the last thing you’d ever expect, and you feel your stomach turn.

“Carmilla?”

********  
  
****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midterm season is upon me, so please bear with me for chapter 3! Feedback is greatly appreciated :)
> 
> Find me on tumblr: hellohurricane


	3. Turning On My Own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Carmilla broods and things start to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this chapter took so long, but I hope it satisfies! Shoutout to Kristianne for her knowledge of classical music and my Space prof for the science info.
> 
> Songs featured:
> 
> Turning On My Own / Satellite  
> Moonlight Sonata (Movement One) / Beethoven 
> 
> check out the playlist here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLvdj6L_EztKwAcDs2cG3EsTSfkC1z4M07

You forget to call Laura for three days.

On Monday, you wake early in the morning despite not having to work until the afternoon, and it takes you a few minutes to realize what had woken you in the first place.

You dreamt of her. You were on stage, and you could see her in the front row, and you felt at peace for the first time in days. And then suddenly she was gone, you couldn’t find her; your strings were broken. You’d felt yourself falling and then your eyes had opened.

“ _Shit_ ,” you whisper, jolting up in bed and grabbing your phone off your bedside table. You’re only half awake, and before you even check the time you’re dialing Laura’s number.

“Shit, shit, shit.” You hear the dial tone three times before you get her voicemail.

“Laura,” you gravel out, clearing your throat. You look to the window and notice it’s still dark outside. “Shit, Laura, I’m sorry. Please call me when you get a chance.” You hang up, glance at the clock.

4:12 a.m.

Fuck.

 _She’s sleeping_ , you reassure yourself. _She’ll call you in the morning before class_. But there’s a sinking feeling in your stomach, a part of you that thinks she won’t. _How many times are you going to do this to her?_

You groan, throwing your phone into your pillow and pushing yourself up. You see your guitar on its stand in the corner of the room, the neon light from outside seeping through the cracks in your curtains. The brass strings look alluring in the light, and your fingers itch for stress relief.

You’re pretty sure your elderly neighbor will have you evicted if he hears you playing before 8 a.m. again, though, so you huff, pushing your matted hair from your face. You grab the spiral notebook sitting on your nightstand along with the pen next to it (a Silas pen that Laura had pulled from her backpack when you’d forgotten one and insisted you keep). You pull the book open to a blank page, sit up against your headboard. The stupid neon lights outside your window are bright enough that you don’t have to turn on any of your own, and you rub the sleep from your eyes, crack your neck.

Your mind is still fuzzy with sleep and you feel half in your dream; you don’t remember the song you were playing, but you remember the feeling. That warmth you got when you looked at Laura before she disappeared, the way it felt to throw your pick up and down on tight strings before they all snapped. And you wish you could grasp it, you wish you could put that sort of joy on paper, but the pen feels heavy in your hand and everything you wish you could stay is just out of reach, foggy in your subconscious.

You sigh, pulling at the worn corners of your notebook, and you finally pull it open to the last page. You run your fingers delicately over the edges of the page that sits nestled inside before finally grabbing it and tossing the notebook down on the bed. You unfold the wrinkled paper with shaky hands, crossing your legs beneath you.

The sheet music is faded, covered in tear stains and coffee stains from all the years you’ve held onto it. You trace the familiar opening bars, your finger skimming along the bass line notes as they move up, up, up and down again. You feel a knot forming in the back of your throat and you try to ignore the way your eyes burn when you read your father’s handwriting at the top; you remember when he wrote this piece on a lazy Sunday. You were ten. You remember falling in love with the happy little melody as it filled your house, and when you asked your father what he would call it, he grabbed his pen and scratched at the paper before showing you: _Carmilla_.

You remember feeling invincible then. And when you think back to last week, when you’d returned to find your stepmother on your stoop, you remember feeling small, wounded, threatened.

 _God_ , you think, _what a mess_.

You fold the page again and stick it in the back of your notebook before grabbing your phone again, pulling up yours and Laura’s message thread. Your fingers hover over the keyboard and you wish you knew she was on the other end waiting for your text. You wish you could know what she’s thinking, what she’s dreaming, whether you cross her mind as the horizon lightens.

It’s 4:30 a.m. but you head to your kitchen to start a pot of coffee anyways and you hope that when the sun comes up, you’ll find the words you’re searching for and when you do, you’ll write them down for her.

* * *

 

She doesn't call.

You wait out all of Tuesday, doodling in the margins of your notebook and biting your nails all through your shift. You deliver two plates of eggs to the wrong tables and every time you hear the door open, you swear your heart jumps into your throat. You tell yourself she’s busy, probably spending hours in the library working on her research project. You tell yourself she’s not ignoring you, that she’ll call when she’s free.

Your shift ends at ten and you try to count your steps on the pavement as you walk home, but you only make it as high as 67 before you’re remembering the freckles on Laura’s nose and you wish you could be counting them instead. You pass the bar where you met Laura on your way and it takes everything in you not to go in for a drink (or two, or three). But if Laura does call, you want to be sober; you want to show her, somehow, that you are not just shitty decisions. You wish it was the truth.

Your apartment feels quieter than usual when you get home, and you plop down on the sofa with even changing, placing your phone next to your head and folding your hands across your stomach. You’re waiting to hear your ringtone, your text tone, _anything_ that says you haven’t lost her completely.

And honestly, you’re not entirely sure why you care; you can’t wrap your head around how Laura makes you this crazy, makes you want to be so different, so good. But you feel it when she smiles at you and her nose crinkles at the bridge, and you tasted it when you kissed her. The logical part of you knows you won’t be anything more than a blip on her radar, a rebound she met in a sleazy bar, a friend to keep her entertained, maybe a puzzle to solve, a broken girl for her to fix.

You close your eyes and let yourself see the stars behind them. It’s easy, sometimes, in this apartment all by yourself, to forget that you exist. You’d been disconnected for so long before Laura—no family, no friends, no one to call or check in with or worry about. It was easy to forget your life could mean something to other people, and so you’d been floating, untethered. But lately you’d felt yourself turning, and you not sure what toward, but it feels like something a long time coming.

The colors behind your eyes swirl slower now and you’re in and out of consciousness now, half wondering how badly LaFontaine wants to murder your ass. You think you feel the start of a song in the place just behind your ears but it fades so fast and you fade with it, sinking…

You jump when your phone rings loudly in your ear, sitting up on the couch. You reach for it quickly, tapping the ‘answer’ button and bringing it to your ear.

“Laura?!” you slur, rubbing a hand over your eyes.

“Carmilla? It’s me, Lilita. I figured you’d be working late, dear, but I just wanted to apologize for the other day--”

Your mouth feels like copper from where you’re biting at your bottom lip, and you feel revulsion rise from deep in your chest.

“ _Save it_ ,” you snarl before ending the call, wishing you had something to smash your fist into. You settle for chucking your useless piece of shit phone at the wall with a grunt, and you think you hear it crack.

“ _God!_ ” you yell, stomping angrily to your bedroom and slamming the door shut. And because it’s all too much, because there’s not a single fucking thing you can stand right now, you throw yourself on the bed, blinds open, and you let yourself fall asleep.

* * *

 

As it turns out, your phone _is_ broken. You definitely don’t have the money to replace it for the time being, which, at the very least, means you won’t be getting any more unwanted calls from your stepmother (who’d programmed her number into your phone, you guess, when you weren’t looking). But it also means that you have no hope of contacting Laura. So you spend Wednesday hatching a pretty stupid plan, and you convince Betty to switch you shifts so you have Thursday morning off.

You don’t sleep that night; you write instead. The music comes first, thankfully, and you’re able to write during the hours you know your neighbor is sleeping. As the sun rises, you’re scribbling hastily into your notebook, filling in lyric gaps, and when it’s finished, when an orange glow begins to flood your room, you feel like you have something to be proud of.

The clock on your bedside table reads 6:24 a.m., and so you decide to hop in the shower before heading out. You try out the new song using the bathroom acoustics, and you like how big your voice sounds over the stream of hot water. You allow yourself a moment, one small moment, of peace, leaning your forehead against the porcelain tile and breathing the scent of your shampoo in and out, deeply. And you think that maybe, if your plan doesn’t work, maybe you might still be okay; you’ve been on your own for so long now, and maybe that’s just how it’s supposed to be. Just you and your guitar. You think you could convince yourself to be okay with that.

Soon you’re shutting off the water, on autopilot as you dress, brush your teeth, grab your keys and wallet before heading out the door. You check the time before you leave—8:37—because you know you won’t be able to once you’ve left.

Every step you take further convinces you of what an idiot you are for trying this, but you walk with purpose toward campus, regardless. It’s a chilly day, colder than it’s been all year, and you’re grateful you thought to throw on your black beanie before leaving. And you honestly can’t believe you’re planning to spend your whole day outside if that’s what it comes to, but the thought of making amends with Laura makes your fingertips tingle in your pockets.

So you walk past the coffee shop to the building she’s pointed out several times, told you she has multiple classes in, the one that’s obnoxiously hot at this time of year. You make your way through the steady stream of students and snag a spot on a bench directly across from the doors. You sit. And you wait.

And yeah, you feel more than a little creepy, but you don’t know exactly what time Laura’s class meets at, and all you have to go on is her whining about a 9 a.m. class. But it could be a different day, or a different time, or maybe you even got the building wrong. You’re doing this all on a whim, and you know it’s a long shot—even if you do manage to track her down, you wouldn’t be surprised if she told you to go fuck yourself. But still, you have to try. You have to know.

9:30 passes and then 10, and you’re absolutely bored out of your mind. The campus is pretty, but not pretty enough to hold your attention for any significant length of time, and people watching is one of your least favorite activities. So you stuff your hands tight in your jacket pockets and run the new song over in your mind, remembering how the chords feel tucked under your fingers.

You’d done some research this weekend to keep your mind off things, and you’d found a few places in town with upcoming open mic nights; and sure, maybe some new wave American restaurant isn’t all that much better than a shitty, seedy bar, but you think it would be nice to continue playing to people who are at least mildly sober. You’d also looked into recording space bookings but had quickly closed the tab when you saw the price tag on even the most indie studios. You’re not sure how much longer you can keep waitressing, though, and you can’t deny now that you think music is what you think you should be doing full-time.

You’re just not sure how to get there.

You lose your train of thought as the doors of the building fly open, letting loose a horde of students free from their 9 a.m. class. You stand, keeping your eyes peeled for any sign of honey blonde hair. But as the mass of students dies down, you sit back down, sighing at the thought of being here all day, waiting. And then you have to laugh at yourself, because this might be the most pathetic thing you’ve ever done, and you think if someone had told you three months ago that you’d sit on a bench all day for some girl, you would’ve told them they were bat shit crazy.

And yet, here you are.

Hours go by. The only way you can estimate the time is by keeping track of the ebb and flow of classes, and by the time 1:30 rolls around, you’re feeling as hopeless as you are hungry. You’ve run through nearly all of your songs and imagined a thousand potential ways for Laura to tell you to fuck off. You’re tired and cold and anxious as hell and you really just want to go home, but you told yourself you’d stick it out until at least 3 (you just hope your toes don’t fall off by then).

But 3 o’clock finally rolls around and the students have all disappeared into the building, leaving campus quiet once again. You try to ignore the way you feel your heart beating in your ears, and as you get up to leave, you tell yourself you never really had a chance anyways.

You’re walking away with your eyes on the ground when you feel someone collide with your shoulder fast and hard. And because you’re bitter and doing your best not to fucking cry right now, you don’t just let it slide.

“Hey,” you say, “watch where you’re—” You cut yourself off when you turn around and see a long, blonde braid whipping in the wind as she runs, her backpack bouncing up and down as she tears open the doors.

Of _course_ she’s late for class.

You make your way back to the bench and sit, trying to ignore the way your heart is pounding harder in your chest. The waiting is terminal now, and you don’t know whether that’s good or bad. Your hands shake all the same.

The hour and twenty minutes feels like a century, at least. Your foot taps off beat on the pavement and you feel a seizing in your chest each time you remember that Laura will be coming out soon. It hits you that you don’t really know what you’re going to say to her, other than that you’re sorry, and a big part of you knows it’s not enough. You rub your hands together.

When the first rush of students pours out of the building, you move to stand closer to the door. It’s only a few minutes until you see her, walking slowly amongst the crowd, looking bored and more than a little tired. The first time you try to call out her name, your voice catches in your throat.

“Laura,” you husk, and her head snaps up. She looks confused for a moment before she finds you, and her face scrunches up in anger.

“What are you doing here?” And yeah, this feels way creepier than you had intended.

“I’m sorry, Laura. Some shit came up this weekend and it slipped my mind to call you and then my phone broke and—” Laura cuts you off.

“What, do you think I’m a teenager? That I’m mad you didn’t call me? I was worried something happened to you, Carmilla, and how would I know? How would anyone know? You just,” she shrugs, shakes her head, “you can’t just let me in and then drop me like that. Especially when you don’t have anyone else. I was worried.”

And it scares you, how right she is. You’d become so insulated in your own life that you hadn’t stopped to consider that now there might be someone out there to care about you. You feel guilt sink deep into your stomach.

“Look, I’m sorry, Laura. Can we just…” You sigh. You’d beg her, if you had to. “I just want us to go back to normal.”

Laura laughs and you hate how hollow it sounds.

“What _is_ normal for us, Carmilla? I feel like I can’t even get a footing in this relationship before you pull the rug out from under me.” She looks away from you, staring intently at the ground. “I’m not sure if I can do this,” she whispers. You think you feel your heart break, pressing tightly against your ribs, but it motivates you, and you reach out a hand to touch her before thinking better of it.

“Can I show you something? Please?” Your voice is quiet and you’re incredibly aware of how desperate you must seem.

She’s shaking her head again. “Carmilla, I don’t know…”

“Please. Just...just one thing. And then I’ll let you go.”

There’s a beat before she looks you in the eye and nods slowly. You inhale deeply before walking away from her, toward the music building, and you can hear her follow. Your mind is racing as you cross campus, trying to remember the things you’d learned as a child.

You’re at the front door before you know it, and when you make your way down to the basement practice rooms, you’re glad to see no one has taken your usual space. You yank the door open and step inside, hearing it shut behind Laura. It’s stiflingly quiet as you pause for a moment, trying to get your bearings.

“You didn’t bring your guitar,” Laura notes, and you shake your head.

“No.” You look back at her hesitantly. “To be honest, I didn’t even think you’d want to speak to me. But since you did, I want to show you...”

You move to sit at the upright piano in the corner, lifting the cover, and testing a few keys. It’s old and a bit out of tune, but it’ll do the trick. You turn to find Laura eyeing you curiously.

“Come on,” you say, gesturing for her to sit next to you on the bench, “I won’t bite.”

You play around with a few melodies, trying to get a feel for the instrument again. You’d forgotten how the ivory felt beneath your fingers—so different than brass strings, but there’s an undeniable familiarity. You work through a few scales and you’re surprised how much muscle memory you’ve retained.

She sits down on the bench, nearly on the edge of the seat, and you’re honestly afraid she might fall off. You don’t want to push her into moving closer, though, so you pretend you don’t notice how much distance she’s keeping between you.

“You play piano?” she asks, and her voice sounds small.

You nod. “Now, bear with me, I haven’t played in years.” And you start.

It’s a complete mess. You’re missing keys all over the place, and while you were ridiculously nervous just a few moments ago, you can’t help but laugh at yourself. You keep playing, chuckling when you forget the treble clef rests; you used to play this piece every single day when you were younger. It was your father’s favorite. Things are so different now, but you keep playing because at this point, it’s all you have left. You hear Laura next to you, giggling with you (or maybe at you) whenever you mess up. It only serves to make you laugh harder. You try to find her out of the corner of your eye, and it might just be your imagination, but you think she’s scooted closer to you. You think you feel her eyes on you, and it’s enough to make you mess up significantly.

You’re both laughing when you stop halfway through the piece, and you bash on the keys a few time in mocking frustration.

“Okay, so maybe I’m a little more out of practice than I thought,” you say, and you find Laura almost hip to hip with you on the bench.

“That’s okay. Still _much_ better than I could ever do.” She brings her fingers up to the keys, punching out a few low notes and avoiding your gaze. You feel your jaw clench and your fist ball up on your knees. You exhale slowly.

“My stepmother came to see me last week.”

Laura brings her hands back to her lap instantly but still doesn’t look at you. And because you feel like the wall between the two of you might have been cracked, you continue.

“I hadn’t seen her since I was 18, since I moved to the city. We don’t exactly have the best history and I,” you swallow hard, and the next part comes out in a strained whisper, “I freaked out, Laura. I’m sorry. Seeing her brought back things I’ve tried to ignore for years.”

She’s rubbing into her palm, and all you want is to take her hand. You can see her biting the inside of her cheek.

“You just…you can’t just keep pulling this hot and cold stuff on me, Carmilla. It’s not fair. And,” she shrugs, “and I want you to feel like you can share things with me. But you keep pushing me away. I need you to be here or this isn’t going to work.”

You want to show her that you are here, that you’re trying to change, that all you want to do is be better for her. You reach out and brush your fingertips against her knuckles gently, and she finally looks up at you.

“I haven’t had anyone to depend on in years, Laura. I’m not trying to make excuses—that’s just how it is. But,” you say, extending your hand to lace her fingers in yours, “I want to try. You make me want to try. And I know I don’t deserve another chance, but I’m asking for it anyway. Because I’m selfish. And I want you, Laura.”

She sighs, her shoulders dropping, and she plays with your fingers, looping them around her own. She’s quiet for a moment and you can see her wrestling with herself, deciding whether or not to trust you.

“What did your stepmother want?”

You close your eyes, remembering how it felt to have her sitting in your living room, drinking your coffee, trying to pretend like things were normal, and your anger flares up.

“She wanted,” you scoff, “to make peace.” And you leave it at that.

Laura brushes her hair behind her ear, tangles her fingers in yours again. She seems to understand how tense the subject makes you and is willing to give you some distance. You’re definitely not expecting what comes next, though.

“Ask me on a date,” she says, mischief gleaming in her eyes.

“What?” you say, and you wonder if this girl will ever stop catching you off guard.

“Ask me on a date,” she repeats, and her lips pull into a smile. You feels yours do the same.

“Are you saying that all the time we’ve spent in this room hasn’t been romantic? That stain on the carpet doesn’t turn you on?”

She hits your shoulder and you smirk.

“Carm!” She rolls her eyes. “I’m serious.”

You clear your throat.

“Laura, would you like to go out with me tomorrow?” She smiles so big you swear it tears your heart.

“I would love to,” she says, and leans in quickly to press your foreheads together before pulling back. “And now I really need to go get some work done on my project. Pick me up at 6 tomorrow?”

“What, you don’t need me to walk you home today, sweetheart?”

She shakes her head. “Nope! Go plan our date. I’ll see you tomorrow!” She grabs her backpack and heads for the door, but stops before she pulls it open. She looks somber as she turns to face you.

“I don’t know what happened with your stepmother, or what the situation is, but,” she chews on her bottom lip, “for what it’s worth, I think you should try to work things out.”

You sigh. “I’ll think about it.” And maybe, you think, maybe you actually will. If you’ve learned anything from Laura, it’s that forgiveness is hard and messy and worth it. She nods and you watch her leave, the door still open.

For a moment, you sit there frozen, because _what the fuck just happened?_ You’d expected to never see Laura again, and now you have a date with her. You think you’d take a thousand night shifts if it meant you could feel like this again, and you think dragging your ass to work this afternoon might not be so hard with tomorrow to look forward to.

You’re going on a date. With Laura.

* * *

 

You pick her up promptly at 6 the next day, and when she meets you at the front door of her building, you feel your breath catch in your throat. The colorful, checkered dress she’s wearing perfectly compliments her hazel eyes. Her hair falls in soft curls over her shoulders, and you’re surprised to see she’s wearing a bit of light makeup. The florescent light hanging over the front door shines down on her, forms a halo around her, and you want to kiss her right then.

She seems to take your staring as a bad sign, though, and she’s suddenly self-conscious, crossing her arms. You realize she’s looking down at your outfit: black skinny jeans, white t-shirt, black blazer.

“Sorry, am I not dressed appropriately? I wasn’t sure where we were going but I brought a sweater—I can go put on pants if that would be better—”

“Laura,” you breathe. “You look lovely.”

You see a blush creep up her neck to her cheeks and it only serves to further your point. You run your eyes along her collarbone, just barely visible over the neckline of her dress, and you think you feel yourself blush, too.

“Thank you,” she says, and you can only nod in response, still lost in the light pink shade of her lips. “So, where are you taking me?”

Your eyebrows raise.

“Well, I’d hate to ruin the surprise, cupcake. You’ll just have to come along and find out.” You offer her your arm and she links hers tightly around your own as you walk out of her courtyard.

You’d been up the whole morning after your shift ended, Googling like crazy and scrapping plan after plan. You didn’t want any part of the night to feel cliche, and you knew it wouldn’t ever be perfect the way you wanted it to be, so you settled for for trying to find the things that would make Laura smile the most. That’s all you really care about, anyways.

The two of you quickly fall into step together; you ask about her project and she tells you with unabashed pride how much progress she was able to make in editing her footage last night. She wonders out loud how you keep managing to fit her into your work schedule, to which you shrug (in reality, you think your boss is starting to get annoyed at how often you’re switching shifts with coworkers, but you can’t really bring yourself to care). You lead her to the subway stop near her apartment and she looks even more curious as she slides her card and makes her way through the turnstile.

“How many stops?” she asks excitedly when you sit down on the train.

“Uh uh,” you say, trying to keep your cool as she cuddles up next to you. “I told you, it’s a surprise.”

“Ughhh,” she groans, and you roll your eyes, but you can hardly contain a gasp when she reaches down to slip her hand into yours. She squeezes gently and gives you a smile and you get that feeling in the pit of your stomach—the one you only get around Laura.

“This better be good, then,” she jokes, and you feel a tug of doubt in your chest, one that makes you realize just how much you want to impress her. She must notice the way your jaw stiffens because she leans in, pressing a kiss to your cheek and lingering for just a moment.

“Relax. I’m happy to be here with you.” She looks around at the crowded subway, wincing at the abundance of spread-legged men and crying children. “Okay,” she laughs,  “maybe not _here_ specifically, but you know what I mean.” You nod.

“We’re the next stop anyways, cutie.” She squeals in excitement and god, you really hope you don’t let her down. You pull her off the train and up to the street, and she holds your hand tight as you try to remember the directions you’d gotten online. She keeps you entertained, to say the least, telling you a story about the time she almost fell off the subway platform when she and her father visited the city as a child. You swear you’ve never met someone so animate: you have to duck to avoid her swinging arms at least three times.

Finally, you see your destination up ahead, and you attempt to slow her down a little, squeezing her hand in yours. Her face is rosy red from the cold and her eyes reflect the streetlights and, because she’s your date, you don’t feel ashamed by how mesmerized you are.

“So,” you start, “I thought since we never really got an opportunity to stargaze,” she blushes again, adding a deeper tinge of red to her already flushed face, “and since Canadian Octobers are far too cold…” you trail off as you reach the entrance, letting her figure the rest out herself.

“Oh my god,” she says, “The planetarium, really? _Carmilla_. You are _such_ a nerd!”

“You’re one to talk, sweetheart.” And she is, given that she once lectured you for a good twenty minutes on the merits and downfalls of each Hogwarts house. “Come on, it’ll be warm inside.”

You buy tickets for the two of you quickly as she teases you about the number of children present.

“What,” you ask, “you never went to the planetarium as a kid?”

“I did grow up in the middle of nowhere. I’ve actually never been.”

“Well, then,” you grab her hand again as you make your way to the theater, “you’re in for a treat.”

You find a few seats near the middle and away from the abundance of giggling children, settling in next to Laura.

“So,” she says, leaning in close enough that you can smell her perfume, something deep and antiquated that reminds you of the comfort of books and coffee and home. “What exactly does this entail?”

“Well, there’s typically an uneducated narrator who points out the most obvious facts about the constellations and planets, which is, in my opinion, why most people find planetariums boring. _But_ ,” you grin, pulling your beat up iPod Classic out of your jacket pocket, “you just so happen to be sitting with an expert. You’re in luck, cupcake.” You untangle your headphones, scrolling through your album catalogue.

“Oooh,” she mocks, “I didn’t realize I had agreed to a date with an _expert_ astrologist. Score one for me!”

“Please do not conflate astrology with astronomy. Astronomy is the serious scientific study of the universe. Astrology is nothing more than a pseudo-science that generalizes the human experience and fools people into thinking they’re special. Although the ancients did use the astrological constellations to keep track of the visible planets. It’s how they observed Earth’s orbit around the Sun.”

She looks up at you, wide-eyed.

“Okay, so maybe you _do_ know about this stuff. But what’s that for?” she asks, gesturing to the iPod.

“ _This_ ,” you say, holding it up for display, “is to drown out the god-awful noise of that narrator, in case my voice doesn’t do a good enough job of it.”

It’s only a matter of minutes before the lights go down and you hand Laura the right earbud. She sticks it in her ear quickly and you do the same, scrolling through once more to make sure you’ve got the right music lined up. You press play and hear the bright piano fade in your left ear. Suddenly the black dome above you comes alive with hundreds of stars

“ _Whoa!_ ” she whispers, and her face is radiant under the soft glow of the projection overhead. You can see stars reflected in her eyes and your heart beats in time with the music as it crescendos. You tear yourself away from Laura to look up again and it’s funny, because you come here every few months, and you’ve never been able to decide if staring up into an artificial abyss makes you feel closer to death or more alive than ever. But as Laura’s hand finds yours and you feel her warmth seep into your skin, you swear you can feel your blood rushing to your fingertips. You wonder when your heart got so loud.

The projection zooms in on the first constellation and you feel like a child when you start to whisper in her ear, pointing upwards to trace its shape.

“So, that’s Orion.” She leans in closer, tilting her ear down toward your mouth. “He boasted that he was the greatest hunter in the world, that he could kill any creature alive. And because he was such an asshole,” she laughs under her breath, “a tiny little scorpion stung him out of spite. His lover, Artemis, had him put in the sky so she could always see his face. That’s Betelgeuse there on his shoulder.” You circle the star with your finger before dropping your hand.

She looks up at you in admiration and you have to focus on the tempo change to keep your bearings—you're afraid if she keeps looking at you like that you might forget every bit of mythology you know. You feel addicted to the way she's breathing slowly, to the strings in your ears that mimic the hanging stars above you, beyond you.

You recite myth after myth for her, watching as she gazes like she's seeing the sky for the first time. And you know it's not real, you know it's just a 2D projection in a small room inconsequential to the vast, expanding universe, but you think you must have done something right to end up here, of all places, with Laura tucked into the crook of your shoulder and the planets spinning overhead.

You've exhausted your list of known constellations and so the two of you sit, entranced by the galaxy at hand, and Laura sighs in content when you press a kiss to the crown of her head. And you feel, just for a moment, the weight of gravity fade.

* * *

You take her to dinner after the show, a little hole in the wall Italian place you discovered in your first few months of living in the city. It’s dark, candlelit, and though you’d only had one glass of champagne, you feel drunk on Laura’s laugh. You’re amazed at how easy it is to make conversation with her; she asks you where you’d travel if you could (London, Amsterdam, Seattle) and you learn her taste in music is rather atrocious (Taylor Swift, The Goo Goo Dolls, Coldplay). You’re caught off guard each time the waiter comes by your table—something about being with Laura feels so insular, so intimate, that you forget you’re not the only people left on Earth.

And you hate how every other thought you have about her is ridiculously cliche, but then Laura throws her head back when she laughs at a joke you make and you feel yourself fall farther away from reality. The small part of you that stays grounded is left to worry, to wonder if maybe you feel this intensely because you’ve been alone for so long. But then Laura tells you about the time she saw a shooting star when she was 12 (“It was crazy, Carm, just like the movies!”), and all you can really think about is whether or not her wish came true.

You laugh when she splatters spaghetti sauce down the front of her dress—you could’ve pegged her as a messy eater. She sips her champagne greedily and you wonder if there’s anything on earth that doesn’t excite her (when you ask her as much, she scoffs; “You have yet to see me at 7 a.m.”).

You argue over the check for a good ten minutes before you reluctantly let her win, splitting the bill even. You’re both quiet on the train ride back to her apartment, but she leans her head on your shoulder and you have a sneaking suspicion that she falls asleep between stops. You shake her awake when you reach your destination and the sleepy smile she gives you makes your teeth clench. The walk back is slow, lazy, and you wouldn’t have it any other way; Laura comments on how dim the stars are in comparison to the projections you saw earlier and you hum simply in response. You make a vague mental note to look up the chords to Yellow the next time you’re playing at home.

It feels so routine now to walk Laura to her door, but tonight feels different, like the two of you have finally begun to piece each other together, and you hate the thought of going home alone, of ending your night with her. She’s quiet again as you approach her door, biting her lips softly and looking down, and you can’t read her. You sigh.

“Well, cupcake, it’s been fun. I guess I should be getting ho—”

She cuts you off, wrapping a hand around the back of your neck and pulling you in, slotting her lips between yours. You feel her smile against you, feel the pressure of her body as she leans into you, and you grasp her waist tightly. She can’t seem to stop grinning long enough to kiss you properly, so you settle for pressing quick kisses to the corners of her mouth, her nose, her cheekbones. She giggles and lets her head fall on your shoulder for a moment before she cradles your head, kissing you once, slowly. Her forehead rests against yours and she opens her eyes—you can almost see yourself reflected in tiny flecks of green and brown.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she murmurs against your lips. “Sooo, would you like to come up? LaF is staying on campus with Perry tonight.”

“You sure?” you tease. “I’m not supposed to just kiss you at the door and leave like any normal first date would?”

“I told you,” she says, tugging on your hand, “we’re not normal. Now, come on!”

The apartment is exactly what you’d expect from Laura: cluttered, colorful, covered in nerdy memorabilia. There are small traces of LaF’s presence—a Periodic Table of Elements poster tacked to the dining room wall and a few stray beakers and test tubes—but the space is overwhelmingly Laura. You tease her for the Harry Potter figurines lining the fireplace mantle, and her responding indignancy is insanely cute.

She makes hot chocolate for the both of you and settle in on the couch, her feet in your lap and her Tardis mug warming your hands.

“Can I ask you something?” You’re not sure if she’s tired or shy or a combination of both, but her voice is so quiet you almost don’t catch it at first. You rub your thumb back and forth over her shin bone.

“Shoot, cupcake.”

“Why do you like space so much?”

You let the question hang for a moment, your mind pulsing with memory after memory of clear nights in your backyard; telescopic, peaceful nights when the world was younger. You think that’s how Laura makes you feel: the same kind of safe you felt all those years ago.

“My father...my father used to show me the stars. He taught me everything he knew. He always said the universe was composing a symphony that we couldn’t hear, but we could feel it when we looked up.”

Laura’s feet sway slowly back and forth in your lap.

“I like that. I’m really glad you showed me them. The stars, I mean.” You nod. A comfortable silence falls between you again, and she downs her mug of cocoa, placing it on the coffee table. In almost no time she’s falling asleep again, her head bobbing every few seconds. You watch her for a moment as her head falls against the couch, and you smile when her eyebrows knit together. You grab her phone off the couch next to her and check the time, and you can’t believe how late it is already.

“Laura,” you say, shaking her leg lightly. Her eyebrows twitch but you don’t see any other signs of her waking, so you reach down to her foot, tickling the arch with your index finger.

 _That_ gets you the reaction you’re looking for. She squirms, her eyes fluttering open, and you continue to tickle her foot. Soon she’s giggling, reaching out to grab your arm.

“Carm! Stop! I’m awake, I’m awake!”

You laugh and pull your hand away. She sits up slowly, clumsily, until she’s practically in your lap.

“How did you even know I’m ticklish?” she asks, her voice raspy with sleep.

You shrug.

“Lucky guess.”

Her eyes are soft as she looks at you and then she’s leaning in, kissing you like you have all the time in the world. You wrap an arm around her waist to hold her steady, and her hand finds yours in your lap. Her lips are slow against yours and her free hand tangles in your hair, her nails scratching the nape of your neck, and it makes you shiver. You never been with someone so gentle, someone who kisses you like you might break, and you think Laura might be the only thing worth breaking for.

“Carm?” she mumbles against your lips.

“Mmm?”

“I think I like you...like you like the stars.” You chuckle, burying you face in her hair, pressing kisses along the column of her neck. And of all the places you could be, you’re glad it’s here with her. You breathe her in, wondering if maybe you’re dreaming, and then you pull back reluctantly. Her eyes are droopy and you can’t ignore how happy she looks.

“I should get going,” you murmur, though it’s the last thing you want to do. But you’re determined not to fuck this up any more than you already have, and that means taking things slow, giving Laura space to figure out if she really wants this or not. She loosens her grip in your hair.

“‘Kay.”

You untangle yourself from her slowly and she groans, dragging herself off the couch to follow you to the front door. You pull on your boots, your jacket, watch as she pulls at her dress.

“You gonna be okay here all by yourself, cutie?”

She rolls her eyes, smiles regardless.

“I think I can handle it.”

You lean in to kiss her forehead, lingering for a moment, and you push a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

“I’m playing an open mic tomorrow,” you say, and you tell her when and where; “if you’d like come” is your disclaimer.

She takes your hand and promises to meet you there.

* * *

 

You run straight from work the next day to the open mic gig you'd found online. The restaurant you play is noisy and crowded but you hear her clapping over everything after you finish. It's probably your most engaged crowd yet, and when you end on the C chord of Cigarettes, you feel humbled, at peace with yourself the way that only music can make you feel. You think of filters and smoke and haze and how they all seem to lift in that moment, dozens of eyes on you and Laura hooting over the applause and that song resonating in your chest. You think you could play it every single day and not get tired of it, and you think, desperately, that you'd like to find out.

So when the restaurant’s owner approaches you about coming back next weekend for a half hour set, you say yes, yes, absolutely, and Laura beams when you tell her.

“Carm!” she yells, wrapping her arms around your neck. “I'm so proud of you!”

And you kiss her cheek because it’s been years since you had someone you could make proud, years since the world felt this right all at once. You swallow the fear that rises in your throat, that paranoia you’re so used to, and instead you consider using your paycheck to buy a new phone, tracking down your stepmother; you remember how that beat up piano felt under your fingertips, all the songs you could write in that little room; you imagine seeing the world from behind your guitar.

When you go home that night you grab your notebook, trace the new song again with Laura’s pen and you sing it into your empty bedroom at midnight—you sing about secrets and skin and bones and change, the things you’ve lived with and the things you never saw coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments always greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading!
> 
> find me on tumblr: hellohurricane


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